“Where are you just now, Miss Erith?”

“At home.  Could you come to me?”

Vaux shivered again.

“Where d-do you live?” he asked, with chattering teeth.

She gave him the number of a private house on 83d Street just off Madison Avenue.  And as he listened he began to shiver all over in the anticipated service of his country.

“Very well,” he said, “I’ll take a taxi.  But this has Valley Forge stung to death, you know.”

She said: 

“I took the liberty of sending my car to the Racquet Club for you.  It should be there now.  There’s a foot-warmer in it.”

“Thank you so much,” he replied with a burst of shivers.  “I’ll b-b-be right up.”

As he left the telephone the doorman informed him that an automobile was waiting for him.

So, swearing under his frosty breath, he went to the cloak-room, got into his fur coat, walked back to the card-room and gazed wrathfully upon the festivities.

“What did my hand do, Bill?” he inquired glumly, when at last the scorer picked up his pad and the dealer politely shoved the pack toward his neighbour for cutting.

“You ruined me with your four silly hearts,” replied the man who had taken his cards.  “Did you think you were playing coon-can?”

“Sorry, Bill.  Sit in for me, there’s a good chap.  I’m not likely to be back to-night—­hang it!”

Perfunctory regrets were offered by the others, already engrossed in their new hands; Vaux glanced unhappily at the tall, steaming glass, which had been untouched when he left, but which was now merely half full.  Then, with another lingering look at the cheerful fire, he sighed, buttoned his fur coat, placed his hat firmly upon his carefully parted hair, and walked out to perish bravely for his native land.

On the sidewalk a raccoon-furred chauffeur stepped up with all the abandon of a Kadiak bear: 

“Mr. Vaux, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Erith’s car.”

“Thanks,” grunted Vaux, climbing into the pretty coupe and cuddling his shanks under a big mink robe, where, presently, he discovered a foot-warmer, and embraced it vigorously between his patent-leather shoes.

It had now become the coldest night on record in New York City. 
Fortunately he didn’t know that; he merely sat there and hated Fate.

Up the street and into Fifth Avenue glided the car and sped northward through the cold, silvery lustre of the arc-lights hanging like globes of moonlit ice from their frozen stalks of bronze.

The noble avenue was almost deserted; nobody cared to face such terrible cold.  Few motors were abroad, few omnibuses, and scarcely a wayfarer.  Every sound rang metallic in the black and bitter air; the windows of the coupe clouded from his breath; the panels creaked.

At the Plaza he peered fearfully out upon the deserted Circle, where the bronze lady of the fountain, who is supposed to represent Plenty, loomed high in the electric glow, with her magic basket piled high with icicles.